I have walked through many lives,some of them my own,and I am not who I was,though some principle of being abides,from which I struggle not to stray.When I look behind,as I am compelled to look before I can gather strength to proceed on my journey,I see the milestones dwindling toward the horizon and the slow fires trailing from the abandoned camp-sites, over which the scavenger angels wheel on heavy wings.Oh, I have made myself a tribe out of my true affections,and my tribe is scattered!How shall the heart be reconciled to its feast of losses?In a rising wind,the manic dust of my friends,those who fell along the way,bitterly stings my face.Yet I turn.I turn,exulting somewhat,with my will intact to go wherever I need to go,and every stone on the road precious to me.In my darkest night,when the moon was covered and I roamed through the wreckage,a nimbus-clouded voice directed me:-Live in the layers, not on the litter-Though I lack the art to decipher it,no doubt the next chapter in my book of transformations is already written.I am not done with my changes.
Author: Stanley Kunitz
